The Whitebeard Pirates
by pyrat-xo
Summary: Marco looks behind him, once, to the flag waving furious and proud in the wind, then faces them again.


The soil is packed and hard, more like granite than dirt, but Marco concentrates a little and he makes quick work of the area. Red-Hair had handled negotiations, his crew clearing the way for Whitebeard's sons to move the casualties. Marco ducks his head, grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. He ignores the sounds of sobbing from only a few feet above ground, forcefully reminds himself that he's already cried his share on the battlefield and keeps on digging.

Vista finishes a few minutes ahead of him- Ace's tomb doesn't need to be as big as their father's, but Marco works faster. Thatch's isn't too far away. When Marco puts his hands on the edge of the hole and lifts himself out of it, too weary to jump, he steps back so Jozu can fit the enormous slab of stone into the hole. Most tombstones sit on top of the ground, or just barely under, but the idea of anyone stealing or moving this one makes him feel sick to his stomach.

Crewmembers below the rank of division commander don't get their own headstones, but Marco's chest swells with pride when their commanders bring forth their weapons. Even without their names carved on a plaque, their brothers won't forget their names or their faces. That's good enough for him. Izo's got dark circles under his eyes- he'd forgotten to put his makeup on. Haruta's disappeared, but Marco senses her easily. When he squeezes her shoulder, inclines his head back to the crowd and lifts her to her feet, she bites back tears but draws her sword and takes her place at the head of her division.

Pops had never treated her special for being a woman (he had actually called her his son, and Marco thought she would've developed some sort of complex from that, but she never did), and he decided that he wouldn't either. Haruta's his brother- same as anyone else.

Namur and Rakuyo patrol the space before the graves, clearing the way for Red-Hair to approach. Shanks nods at him, then turns to regard the tombstones as the crew starts arranging flowers around them.

He asks, "The islands?"

Marco knows that without the old man's influence, they'll start receiving a steady stream of calls from the islands he had been watching over. That was fine. It would take some time and more than a few casualties before they managed to restore order, but Whitebeard had always prioritized his allies. That wouldn't change. He had rarely ever been the one to personally see to a certain island's protection as it was. Marco answers without hesitation, "I'll make sure they're handled."

Sixteen hundred pairs of red-rimmed eyes look to him when Shanks leaves, and Marco takes his hands out of his pockets, mouth twisting into a sneer as he yells, "Are you pirates, or crybabies?"

The answering roar is indistinct, but deafening. It cuts off abruptly when he raises a hand. He's not a pirate captain- Marco's always been more comfortable relaying orders than giving them, more concerned with details than big ideas, but he's worked under the old man long enough to know how to put them back together. How to keep all his little brothers from falling apart.

There's less pain in their eyes, and more determination. He likes that. They have to move beyond their losses and reorganize. It's cold of him, but he'll have time to mourn properly once all their affairs are in order.

"Look around you. Pops is gone, so it's about time you all manned up, don't you think?"

The men don't need comfort, or coddling. The Whitebeard pirates have always looked to strength, and Marco knows that they'll bend so they don't break.

He had befriended their allies over the years- every single one of them had come up to him after the clash at Marineford to tell him that their bonds were still solid, that they would all proudly fly the Whitebeard flag beneath their own. They weren't on this island. This one hasn't been mapped, is protected by a changing guard year-round and is both headquarters for their living and resting place for their dead. The allies are welcome anywhere else.

"I'm not asking you not to be sad, but our brothers are still out there fighting. They're buying us time. We don't have the luxury of allowing this to cripple us, so I'm asking you to be strong." There's a low murmur rippling through the crowd, and Marco's voice lowers to his normal drawl. Everyone falls completely silent, enough for even the members lined up near the back of the crowd to hear him with no effort. "Not that I need to do much asking."

Marco looks behind him, once, to the flag waving furious and proud in the wind, then faces them again.

"We are, have always been, and will remain," he says, voice steady over the heads of his brothers, "the Whitebeard Pirates."


End file.
